


Reunions

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: So Much Trouble [17]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Fluff, Dominance, M/M, Power Imbalance, Slow Burn, Spanking, Starker D/s, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22164151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Read at your own risk.  There's a lot of fluff in here.  Some smut, because I can't not.~~~Peter has checked flight times for tomorrow seven times in the last twelve minutes. He knows this because KAREN informs him of it, peeved, before throwing up a real-time jet map in the lower left of his mask.  She’s also told him, repeatedly, that MJ and Ned will be traveling via private jet.  It’s not likely to be delayed.He’s threatened that if anything goes wrong, he may throw up, he’s that excited.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: So Much Trouble [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562707
Comments: 35
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the absolutely fantastic jf4m and mindwiped, THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME TALK GOOD and offering encouragement and baskets full of bunnies when I get stuck.
> 
> NOT ENDGAME COMPLIANT. (Let's be real here, this AU is barely MCU compliant.)
> 
> Dead Dove Warning finally! Finally! We're here! Starker D/s! 
> 
> For prudes, these are fictional characters and I've double checked, no one actually has a skeevy real-life relationship as a result of this series, so, like, relax. No one is going to get hurt. They're not real.
> 
> THERE WILL BE SEXY SPANKINGS, this IS that chapter.
> 
> Annasdotter, LOOK! INTERACTIONS WITH OTHER MCU CHARACTERS, JUST FOR *YOU.*

Peter has checked flight times for tomorrow seven times in the last twelve minutes. He knows this because KAREN informs him of it, peeved, before throwing up a real-time jet map in the lower left of his mask. She’s also told him, repeatedly, that MJ and Ned will be traveling via _private_ _jet_. It’s not likely to be delayed.

He’s threatened that if anything goes wrong, he may throw up, he’s that excited. 

After a lot of debate, between staying at the Compound, with the whole team, and the Tower, with access to family and their old neighborhood, Mr. Stark had swooped in and declared Team Breakfast tomorrow so that MJ and Ned and Peter can have _both_. It’s been awhile since the last Team Breakfast anyway, and Clint was starting to drop hints. Cap said if they were getting together for Breakfast, they might as well come early and do practice and Movie Night, so here Peter is, suited up, _practicing_.

The craziness of year end is becoming a thing of the past, and they’ve set a date for the following week for the flight down to the Island. Ms. Potts says they’ll stay as long as they can, which should be over two weeks. 

Peter checks the map as he webs through the Bronx. The little plane is still green. Cap is nowhere in sight and Bucky, a flash three blocks back, has likewise disappeared. Peter tells himself to get his head back in the game.

“Boss, we’re not doing so hot, zero flags, I have no idea how I’m going to hold my own with FRIDAY when we get back,” KAREN informs him morosely.

“Shit, sorry, KAREN,” he says subvocally.

“She teases, it’s awful,” KAREN informs him. “Please at least get Clint’s flag? He’s right there, at your four.” She lights up his screen, highlighting Clint’s position.

“Nice!” He laughs, and considers the best strategy. In the end, he cheats a little, although it’s not technically against the rules to use his webs to take a flag. He’s just never done it before. Clint watches the flag fly through the air and tries to get it with a grappling arrow and play tug-of-flag, but a sudden gust of wind- _Thanks, Thor_ \- knocks it off-course just before it hits.

Clint signs, _Next time, punk_

Peter signs back, _L-o-l_ , _old_ _man, get online_

The name of the game is, Clint’s flag is his, Clint’s on his team, so he pauses a moment to let KAREN interface with Clint’s comm. There’s a beep as he comes online and his stats move to a small popup in the way lower left of Peter’s mask 

KAREN says, “Hey, is that T’Challa on your eleven, Clint?”

“It is,” agrees Peter, pressing Clint’s flag to his, sealing the edges so anyone grabbing one will now get both. “Let’s go say hi!”

“Kid, that’s the best idea ever,” Clint agrees. “I see a flag, so he’s not on a team yet. You go low, I’ll cover you.”

Peter grins and tosses himself off the roof, and only manages to keep himself from whooping in excitement because it’s a sneak attack on a man dressed as a panther. _Whooping is a seriously bad idea._

The Black Panther’s attention is completely and entirely on the door in front of him, and Peter briefly wonders what’s inside before he webs the flag hanging off the man’s hip. T’Challa is faster than Clint, he whips around and his claws grab for it, slicing through the tip of the triangle, as Peter retracts the web and tries to swing away, faster, faster, swing faster, stupid physics. There’s a tug and Clint has the flag, too, secondary insurance, pierced with a grappling arrow. The flag is way closer to Clint at this point so Peter drops his web and the flag drops into Clint’s hand and Clint _whoops_ over the comms.

Peter grins as the Black Panter’s stats join Clint’s. “Welcome, Your Majesty,” he intones.

“You cheated,” argues T’Challa, but there’s good humor there, too.

“All’s fair in love and war and flagtag,” laughs Clint. “What’s inside the door?”

“I believe Dr. Banner,” T’Challa tells them.

“Whoa, is he playing?” asks Peter, because that’s _new_.

“Yeah, Nat got to him,” Clint says easily, like Dr. Banner doesn’t turn into a gigantic rage monster that _leveled_ _Brooklyn_. 

“We’re, uh, not going for property damage, Cap said, Cap said absolutely zero property damage,” says Peter nervously. “It’s a strict training exercise.”

“Which Dr. Banner understands, and believes he has explained to the Hulk as well,” T’Challa agrees. “I do not believe he will Hulk out, I believe the point is that he will _not_ engage the Hulk. He still plays.”

“Nat’s nearby,” says Clint sharply.

“She is?” asks Peter, grabbing onto the nearest support in startlement. “How- where-”

“Can’t see her yet,” admits Clint. “But there’s no way she’d get him to play and then abandon him defenseless.”

“That would seem to go counter to her usual motivations and methods,” agrees T’Challa.

“Well, Team Leader?” asks Clint.

“Oh, uh, not it,” says Peter, slithering down the side of the building towards Clint so he can grab the flag and attach it.

“Not it?” repeats T’Challa, amused.

“Yeah, not great at- barely good at _teams_ \- can’t _lead_ a team, so, one of you, you take over,” Peter tells them.

T’Challa looks up at them, standing by the door, and says, “Eyes in the sky?”

“Also not it, also not great at leading, happy to do the tactics, horrible at strategy,” Clint chuckles, handing the flag to Peter without looking up.

T’Challa sighs. “And I am a born leader who never struggled to study the strategies of my ancestors to improve my ability to handle a command on the field.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” intone Peter and Clint together, and Peter has missed Clint _so much_ the past few weeks. They high five, discreetly, as Peter tilts his head and says, “I can get us down there by you, you want that?”

“Yes, indeed, if the Widow is protecting the scientist, I want her partner as my shield,” T’Challa says. “And you are remarkably useful.”

Peter pushes Clint off the building and then jumps after him. Clint glares up at him and shouts, “Not funny!” but Peter’s laughing because it is, a little. _What_ , he’s not going to let Clint _hit the ground._

“That is not what I was imagining, when you offered to bring him to me,” says T’Challa slowly, as Peter bounces Clint to the ground a few steps away. “But it serves.”

Peter grins because T’Challa totally thinks it’s funny, too. They’re the best team, they’re totally going to win today. T’Challa nods at them and opens the door.

~~~

“How does she do this every time, what kind of Team Captain _are you,_ Cap?” complains Mr. Stark, as they lay around the Avengers penthouse later that afternoon, exhausted and exhilarated. 

“It was you and me against all of them and you don’t listen to me,” Steve says back, tipping his head forward as Bucky’s fingers dig into his shoulders. “You’re lucky we made it to the end without _me defecting_.” 

Peter smirks, because he _got the flag_ for Natasha, and he doesn’t care what anyone else says, that means he _won the game._

“Okay, and you can stop smirking, Trouble, I see you smirking,” groans Mr. Stark, even though he can’t see Peter, Peter’s behind him, on a kitchen stool beside Clint, eating their way through a truly mountainous amount of nachos.

“Peter Parker has earned his pride this day,” declares Thor, chugging his Monster drink with a sigh of contentment.

“Definitely MVP,” declares Clint, and Peter bumps with him. For once, Peter had managed to work _with_ the others on his team, to stay out of everyone’s best shots, to zig when he should zig. 

Peter checks the flights for tomorrow morning on Mr. Stark’s- his- watch. Everything looks good, on time, no weather developing. KAREN hisses in his ear, “Stop. Stop or I’ll tell FRIDAY.” He shakes his head, slightly, biting down savagely on his next chip.

Natasha slots Peter a sly glance and says, “He just needs the right kind of handler, to push his boundaries and bring out the best in him.”

Peter chokes on his mouthful, then pretends it was too many jalapeños. Clint signs, _Savage._ _Brutal,_ laughing into his next bite.

“You got a way with how I run ops, you let me know, Red,” the Captain growls, but he doesn’t look up or do anything more than twitch as Bucky’s hands hit a knot, so Peter knows he’s not even _fake_ upset.

Mr. Stark, however, stands and approaches the kitchen, apparently to snag a nacho, but the expression he gives Natasha says, _‘Scuse me?_ loud and clear. Peter bites into another nacho and shares a grin with Clint.

Natasha raises one eyebrow at Mr. Stark and says, “Nah, you do good work, Cap. Just think me and Peter have a good rapport, all the tangoing we do in our off hours.”

Clint chokes on that one, so Peter doesn’t feel as bad when he has to gasp, “God, Hawkeye, these are so spicy, what did you _order,_ ” as cover for his own second splutter attack.

“Nothing special, no idea why there’s so much burn happening,” comments Clint, and Peter chokes again.

Mr. Stark’s eyes are narrowed at Natasha, as she smiles serenely and smugly back at him. “Careful,” he says slowly, like he’s thinking of exactly what message he wants to send to Natasha, grabbing for a laden chip and finishing it off as he talks, “I ordered some really painful stuff and I’d hate for any innocent victims to accidentally get burnt.”

Natasha’s smile increases just a hair.

“Oh, did you Tony?” asks Bruce, wandering over to the cupboards. “There’s never enough spice, I got so used to it in India, I miss all the flavor.”

Clint elbows Peter, who looks at Natasha and signs, _You should help with that_. _Help him find the burn._ She slices her eyebrow up at him, but he can see a faint hint of red bloom in her cheeks and knows he’s scored a direct hit. All those off-hours of tangoing gives him a pretty good read on her, he thinks to himself cheerfully.

 _He misses it_ , adds Clint, snickering silently into his next nacho, and she does glare at him, then. Peter snickers, too, and decides he loves Training Day now. Training Day is the best day.

~~~

The Tower is full of people, so Peter doesn’t expect anything, as the night winds down. Pepper’s in France, he thinks, or maybe Pepper’s in Italy, _negotiating_ with the French, he can’t remember, but France is definitely involved because she sent him a photo of a croissant this morning and the message, _Sticky Fingers can take over the world any day now._ But anyway, it’s no surprise to him when he ends up by Mr. Stark on the sectional for Movie Night (Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom, _finally_ ). He shares popcorn with the man, their shoulders and thighs touching, and figures that’s it, that’s his contact with Mr. Stark for the next few days. It’s not bad, he’ll take what he can get, but he hates the secrecy of it all.

He’s really surprised, after the movie, as everyone says their goodnights and wanders off to go do whatever everyone does- they’re all so different, so eclectic, it’s hard to keep track- to find Mr. Stark wandering up the Penthouse stairs and letting himself into Peter’s room. Peter glances around and realizes no one knows, no one noticed, and his heart beats faster, which isn’t even his fault.

He takes the stairs himself, trying to act normal, trying to remember how he climbs stairs when he’s normally climbing them, and slips into his rooms a few minutes later.

Mr. Stark is sitting on the couch, and he smiles wickedly as Peter enters. “Thought you’d get a night away, huh, Trouble? So sorry to disappoint.”

Peter laughs and walks over, straddling his lap to say, “How did you- no one noticed!”

“I was headed in the direction they expected, I just stopped a little before I usually do. If you don’t make a big production out of it, it’s really easy to sneak around and get where you need to go,” Mr. Stark says smugly. He leans back a little, shifting Peter’s weight over his lap, and then glances up with a twinkle in his eye and a teasing grin on his face, “Now, about that flag you stole from me earlier.”

Peter smiles down at him and replies, “Yes, Mr. Stark? When I won the game, Mr. Stark? _That_ flag, Mr. Stark, sir?”

Mr. Stark’s lips twitch and Peter darts in for a quick kiss. “Victory,” he whispers against Mr. Stark’s lips, and then whispers the sound of a crowd going wild. Mr. Stark surges up and captures his mouth in a wild kiss, full of laughter and delight. 

“Oughta take you down a peg or two,” laughs Mr. Stark, breaking for a breather, and Peter figures that’s the best straight line of his entire life and teases, “Promises, _promises_ , Mr. Stark.”

“Oh, you want to play at that tonight?” asks Mr. Stark, his voice pleased and deepening already.

“Yes, sir,” responds Peter promptly, because _good communication is so important_ , and also because it feels _cheeky_ and _funny._ He can feel his eyes dancing with the laughter he feels inside.

“Excellent, my perfect Peter Parker,” Mr. Stark says, pecking kisses on Peter’s lips in between each syllable. “You read my mind, I’m in just the right mood. C’mere.” He pulls Peter’s hips so that he’s seated deeper on Mr. Stark’s lap, making Peter gasp, and then wraps his arms around Peter and crushes him, just a little, in a deeper kiss.

They kiss for several long moments, Peter’s having trouble tracking time, before Mr. Stark slides a hand into Peter’s hair and grabs, pulling him out of the kiss to scold, “Okay, off, off you naughty sub, off with the pants and over my knee.”

Peter chuckles, standing to comply, and watches Mr. Stark’s eyes dilate a surprising amount as he hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his work out clothes. He slips the track pants down and off, boxers sliding easily with them, and then tosses his t-shirt on top of them.

“I didn’t say, about the shirt, but it’s a good touch,” comments Mr. Stark a little breathlessly. “Excellent use of initiative. FRIDAY, heat up three degrees.”

“ _You’re_ going to warm me up,” protests Peter with a sweet smile. He already feels like he’s got a fever, burning up inside. He can’t believe Mr. Stark _snuck into his room_ for this.

“You bet I am,” Mr. Stark replies, grabbing for his wrists, “Get over here.” He tosses Peter across his lap, and Peter squirms, because he _can_.

“First off,” says Mr. Stark, giving a couple of rapid slaps to Peter’s butt that do nothing, they don’t even _sting_ , “I can’t believe you would have the temerity to show me up, to be better than me in _literally_ _everything_ we did today.” He emphasizes the words with his voice and with his hand.

Peter gasps and chuckles, “Sorry, sir, won’t happen again.”

“And now you’re _lying_ to me?” asks Mr. Stark in a tone of mock outrage. He gives a few good smacks, and Peter moans a little, because it really does feel different from the not-a-tantrum, it’s a completely different feel tonight. It’s an _activation_ , not a _punishment._ He loves it already, and they’ve only just _started_. His dick twitches in full agreement. 

“Naughty sub,” scolds Mr. Stark, and then there’s a few moments where it’s just the sound of his hand, and Peter jumping, and that’s good, that’s so good, too. The burn is building, slow and steady, and it feels surprisingly like the pattern Peter recognize from the glow of desire. He wonders briefly if he could hit a crest on this sensation, too, if he could ride the wave up and up until he hit some kind of cathartic explosion. Something to ask Eddie about later, he supposes, because Eddie sure acted like he enjoyed a good spanking. Mr. Stark re-covers some of the area he’s already concentrated his hand on, and Peter whimpers a little, because it’s definitely _attention_ _grabbing_.

“So naughty, taking things that don’t belong to you, taking my victory, which was _mine_ , Trouble, I totally had you all on the ropes,” Mr. Stark’s voice is teasing, but his hand is steadily becoming more firm, Peter notices. Peter notices that hand a lot, the way the weight of it hits, the firm burn it presses into Peter’s ass with each slap. It’s very attention grabbing.

“D-did you?” asks Peter innocently. “D-didn’t see that. Probably would have made me change my mind.”

“ _And_ sass? While I’m doing all the work, blistering your butt for you, as _requested_?” gasps Mr. Stark, clearly shocked, shocked and horrified. Peter squirms, as the assault kicks up a notch. He gasps, and Mr. Stark chuckles, “What was that, Trouble? Did you have something to say?”

Peter moans a little as the hand hits lighten up, become strokes of the hot flesh. “Mm, Mr. Stark, feels so-”

“Oh, no, Trouble,” laughs Mr. Stark, his tone shifting darker, richer. “Don’t tell me you’re _enjoying_ this? Don’t tell me you’re getting _off_ on it? Such a _slut_ , Trouble, you’ll get off on _anything_.” His hand continues to rub little circles all over Peter’s ass, his thighs, his upper back, slow little circles. “Your skin’s such a pretty shade of red,” he teases Peter. “Wait, wait, want it for my new phone case, FRIDAY, you able to pull this shade into a Pantone?”

“Never, sir,” she responds immediately. “That’s never happening.”

“Red _is_ our color,” Peter gasps, trying to distract the man before he busts down FRIDAY’s defenses and has matching ties made for them or something else equally awful, Mr. Stark’s sense of humor is _wicked._ “Mr. Stark, what if I said I was _sorry_?” He wiggles a little, experimentally.

“What if you said you were sorry?” scoffs Mr. Stark, and his hand starts up again, re-activating the burn so Peter hisses. “Like I’d _believe_ it, believe a naughty sub like you.”

Peter thinks fast, smiling a little as he offers, “What if I _proved it_ to you?”

Mr. Stark makes a wordless noise of interest, hand slowing down to strokes again, long slow strokes up and down, from the small of Peter’s back to the back of his knees, fingertips so light on Peter’s skin that Peter hisses again. “Proved it how? How are you going to prove how sorry you are, you little victory stealing menace?”

“On my knees,” says Peter promptly, wiggling as Mr. Stark’s fingers light sparks along the crease at the top of his sit spot “like a good little sub.”

Mr. Stark chuckles. “You got me there. Good little subs do spend a lot of time on their knees.”

There’s a moment where Peter’s not sure if Mr. Stark wants to move on, which he’s fine with, the burn can keep building, it feels so _intense_ , before Mr. Stark says, “Yeah, let’s try it, see if you can prove to me you’re sorry, on your knees, like a good little sub.” He drops Peter between his knees and leans back, smirking.

Peter smiles up at him, because Mr. Stark _snuck into his room_ and this is literally nothing he ever expected life to give him. He licks his lips, and eyes Mr. Stark’s belt. He’s never, he always uses his hands to undo it, but this is the one he can undo one-handed and he thinks he’s got an idea for how to undo it with his mouth. Might make a good impression, on the apology front. He leans forward, hands tucking behind his back just to emphasize his plan, and is gratified when Mr. Stark hisses.

“Fuck, Trouble, you are making my night here,” groans Mr. Stark, as Peter works with his lips and tongue to get the catch to- _there_ , he’s got it, that’s the worst part, it pops. He nuzzles the belt a little, to get it loose, and then bites down and tugs. Mr. Stark lifts his hips, helping, and the sound of the belt sliding against the fabric of his pants is only as loud as it is because Peter suspects neither one of them is breathing as he pulls.

“Fuck,” wheezes Mr. Stark, when Peter has to let go to get a new grip with his teeth and pull the last tail end out and off. Peter doesn’t waste a lot of time feeling smug, because this is supposed to be an abject apology for _being too awesome_. He drops the belt on the couch beside Mr. Stark and leans forward to address the catch to the man’s pants. That’s easier, it’s a few quick tugs and the tines release, no buttons, and then he’s lipping after the zipper and sliding it down while Mr. Stark mutters, “Very convincing effort so far, S for satisfactory, but you were fucking phenomenal _all over the City,_ perfect Peter Parker, so the apology is going to have to be pretty spectacular, that’s all I’m saying.”

Peter nods absently and Mr. Stark threads his hand through Peter’s hair, gripping tightly and growling, “No, I don’t think you understand, my perfect Peter Parker, I mean, _spectacular.”_

Peter’s eyes begin to water because the grip is so tight, and after Mr. Stark doesn’t add anything, he whispers, “Sorry, Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry,” looking up at the man to see if there’s a reaction.

“You can do better,” Mr. Stark chides him, and Peter feels a tingle slide down his spine at the darkness he sees gathering in the eyes above him.

“Yes, sir,” he whimpers to that darkness. “Yes, I will, I’m _sorry_.”

“Get to work,” growls Mr. Stark, and Peter falls forward, or tries to, tries to go so quickly, his lips parting, neck stretching, but Mr. Stark’s hand holds him tight. “Go on,” teases Mr. Stark. “Try harder.”

Peter can play this game, too, so he doesn’t use his super spider spit strength to break free of Mr. Stark’s hand, he _struggles_ , the way Mr. Stark clearly wants him to, struggles to lean forward and get his mouth wrapped around the cock that’s still nestled under a layer of insulating silk boxers. 

“Oh, Trouble,” chuckles Mr. Stark. “Here, need a little help, a little inspiration, little motivation?” He slides his cock through the slit in the boxers, so it springs free eagerly. Peter swallows saliva and trembles in his grip because he has _wants_. He struggles, struggles to reach it, tongue flicking out, mouth open, and Mr. Stark clucks his tongue and says, “Such a slutty toy, will get off on anything, mouth so open, gagging for it, drooling, _is_ that _drool_? Self-lubricating in so many ways. Get to work, toy,” he croons, and his eyes snap as Peter moans wordlessly back at him, craning his neck, arms tight behind his back.

“Or maybe, maybe I should show _you_ up just this once, show you how to get me off, hmm, perfect Peter Parker?” teases Mr. Stark, other hand sliding down to grip the base of his cock in a confident grasp.

“N-no, sir, wanna, wanna help,” pants Peter, heart feeling frantic because tonight could go like that, Mr. Stark could do that, he wouldn’t yellow, but he doesn’t want _that_ , he wants, he wants to _help_ , wants to be a part of Mr. Stark’s release, wants, wants so many things. “Please, please let me, please.”

“Fast enough to find your words when you want something, Trouble,” laughs Mr. Stark, sliding his hand up his dick in a long smooth stroke that Peter follows with rapt attention. “Zero to sixty on words when it’s something you _want_ , noted. _Noted_ , Trouble.”

Peter moans because he’s sure that’s important, he’s sure that’s something he’ll want to remember, but right now, he has other things grabbing his attention, namely, the slick slide of Mr. Stark’s hand on the cock Peter wants to swallow. He pants, and looks up at Mr. Stark’s laughing face, and doesn’t think about how this must look. “Please,” he begs, “Please let me, want to, want, please,” he repeats.

“Sounds so good for me, don’t you, toy, love this stream of consciousness setting, mm, but is your mouth really going to be better than this? Righty and I, we go way back.” Mr. Stark’s thumb flicks at the top of every stroke, Peter notices. Every single one, a little flick, not much more than a twitch, and Peter’s got it memorized already, cataloged for future reference.

“P-please,” he begs, straining. “Please let me, let me, please, wanna _help_.”

“You do help,” Mr. Stark tells him. “That rosy red tongue of yours, pink pouty lips, they make such a pretty picture, you should see yourself, toy, such a pretty picture for me, _fuck_.”

“Wanna taste,” disagrees Peter, “Please, let me, please, please Mr. Stark, I’m sorry, let me, _please_.”

“I do love when you decide to play Beg,” Mr. Stark concedes, eyes flashing with humor and dark desire. “I do love that. Little more, you might even convince me to let you gag.”

“Oh, God, yes,” whimpers Peter, trying to toss his head but unable to move with the hand in it, “gonna gag me, please, God, yes, let me help, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Mr. Stark tips his head back, stroking faster, and then says, “Yeah, sure,” releasing Peter’s hair. 

Peter surges forward and sucks down Mr. Stark, who gasps, and then grunts, and whose hands somehow both find their way back to thread through Peter’s hair in a matter of seconds and shove him down. “God, yes,” Mr. Stark hisses, “Fuck, yes, so awesome at this, too, so perfect, fuck, Peter Parker, suck, fuck, yes, gimme, gimme that mouth.”

Peter hums, loving it, knowing he’s going to choke soon, knowing he just, he can’t, his body just has these reactions, but he’s aching and hard, himself, and this is so perfect, Mr. Stark fully clothed, Peter kneeling naked, this is the way he loves this best, nothing but his necklace on. Mr. Stark’s breathing has gone wild, and Peter knows that sound, know it as intimately as the pattern of his own choked breathing. He lifts Peter’s head by the roots of his hair and slams it back down again, and if Peter could smile, he would, this is perfect.

“Fuck, toy,” gasps Mr. Stark, and then he grunts, and Peter hums in interest, because he knows that grunt, and then his mouth is filling and Mr. Stark is done for. _Victory_ , thinks Peter, although he’s struggling to swallow and not breathe and not choke, and tears are spilling in his eyes from Mr. Stark’s tight grip on his scalp.

When Mr. Stark lets him up, he must still be smirking a little, because Mr. Stark immediately says, “Hey, wait a minute. I’m feeling used, did you just enjoy that, too? What kind of abject apology sex is this?”

Peter grins up at him, he can’t help it. He surges upward to whisper, “Victory,” against the other man’s lips, and then, “I’m sorry, but you snuck into my room tonight, I can’t, I can’t sustain anything less than complete victory mode.” _Tony Stark_ snuck into his _bedroom_ and let Peter give him a blowjob. His life is complete, he can die now, this is amazing.

Mr. Stark laughs, and then says, “Well, Trouble, if that’s all it takes to get you this riled up, let’s get you in bed so _you_ can celebrate. Seriously thought that spanking had taken you down a peg.”

“Oh, it did,” Peter reassures him, standing easily and shifting his weight uncomfortably until Mr. Stark stands up, too. “It totally worked, I was feeling very apologetic until I had your cum in my mouth and I remembered you’re _Tony Stark_ , sir. And you snuck into my room tonight. I have _Tony Stark_ in my room.”

“I didn’t have to sneak,” Mr. Stark points out, smirking.

“That makes it even better,” Peter assures him. 

Mr. Stark bursts out laughing. “Well, you’ve hit all my buttons and bells tonight, I’m a satisfied customer. Perfect Peter Parker, how do you want to celebrate your victory?”

Peter has no idea what to ask for until he remembers that they’re in his room, and then he knows exactly what to ask for. “Flavored lube,” he declares.

“Oh, Trouble, you’re literally, is it Spoil Tony night or something?” asks Mr. Stark, looking around wildly as if for a sign.

Peter smirks. “Nope, definitely still Spoil Peter hour.”

Mr. Stark smiles back at him, indulgently, and says, “Well, then, let’s get cracking. On your back on that bed, toy.”

Peter throws himself on the bed as Mr. Stark laughs again. “You are the best toy ever invented,” he declares. “I can’t get over it.”

“More touching,” begs Peter, trying to get his eyes to do all the talking for himself.

“Yeah, yeah, work work work,” chuckles Mr. Stark, arranging Peter’s limbs and pressing them down, flat, against the sheets. He’s got the lube in his hand, somehow, and pops the top. Peter didn’t even see him open the drawer, or hear it, did he? Did he have it in his _pocket?_ “Oh, damn, I forgot how good this smells.” He pours a little into his hand and then grins wolfishly down at Peter. “You stay where I put you, now. No moving, not even one thrust, do you hear me, Trouble?” 

Peter bites his lip, head falling back. “Definitely going to try.”

“Trying’s not good enough,” growls Mr. Stark, slapping Peter’s thigh with a serious blow. “In the bedroom, if we’re playing, you _stay_ where I put you.” Peter looks up into his suddenly serious gaze and nods, once, and replies, “Yes, sir. Where you put me.”

“Good boy,” grumbles Mr. Stark, glaring down at him. “Stay good, Peter Parker. Stay where I put you.”

Peter has no idea why that series of phrases takes his breath away, but it does, it absolutely does. He nods, a little frantically. Mr. Stark growls, “Words, Trouble, or so help me-”

“Yes, sir,” agrees Peter. “Yes, Mr. Stark, sir.”

“Good boy,” praises Mr. Stark gravely. His hand moves, so slowly, to a position directly above Peter’s cock, and then pauses there, tilting just a little. Peter groans as nothing happens, nothing, Mr. Stark’s hand is frozen inches away from his cock, tilting, and nothing else is happening. He want _movement_ and _motion_ and _touch_.

“Aching for it,” muses Mr. Stark. “I can see that, toy, I can see you want it. Stay good, Peter Parker, stay where I put you.”

Peter bites his lip, because he wants to _move_ , wants to thrust up and meet that hand, that warm liquid lube that’s going to feel so good, spread across his skin. If Mr. Stark would just, would just move faster, would just, but there’s no moving the man, no speeding him up, Peter’s learned that. He goes at his pace, and it’s Peter’s job to not explode into tiny atomic particles of _too much_ or _not enough_ , depending.

Mr. Stark chuckles and says, “Here I thought we had unlocked the key, you were so talkative earlier, so good at begging for what you wanted.”

“Please,” moans Peter, because he’s not an idiot, he can read a cue that big. “Please, Mr. Stark, _touch_ me.”

“Touch you, Peter Parker?” asks Mr. Stark in a shocked voice. “Touch you _where_ , perfect Peter Parker? Where do you need to be _touched_ right now?”

Peter can feel his face flushing as he groans, “Mr. Stark, please, please, my dick, fuck, just, can you _please_.” It’s a half-inch away, Peter can feel the heat from his hand, he’s going to _die_ before he negotiates it, though, because goddamn, he’s so hard, he’s so hard, and there’s no cock ring to help him last, tonight.

“But Peter Parker,” protests Mr. Stark, his voice roughening as he reacts to Peter’s begging, “I’m confused, I thought only slutty toys begged for their dicks to get pulled, are you sure, America’s sweetheart? Are you sure you’re a slutty toy, perfect Peter Parker?”

“ _Fuck_ , _yes,”_ hisses Peter through clenched teeth, because his dick jumps at those words, it twitches, he can feel it twitch, and okay, yes, he’s sick, there’s something wrong with him, but _then there’s something wrong with Mr. Stark, too_ . “Yes, I’m yours, I’m your slutty toy, look at the necklace, please, Mr. Stark, please, your hand, please, I need it, on my _dick_ , sir, _please_.”

“Mm,” hums Mr. Stark, and flips his wrist, sliding his hand quickly up and down the length of Peter’s dick to coat it, his fingers twitching, fluttering, and Peter has to stop himself from kicking at that sensation, kicking at the hundreds of lightning bolts that shiver through him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses. “Yes, please, sir, please, fuck, yes.” He’s babbling, he knows it, babbling words of encouragement and gratitude, but it’s so hard to hold still, to not twitch, to _stay where Mr. Stark put him._

Mr. Stark plays with him, he can tell, to see if by switching up his rhythm and pressure and angle he can get Peter to move, to twist, to shake at the unexpected sensations. But Peter was told to _stay,_ and he’s _staying,_ although it’s getting so hard to remember how to keep everything all at once still when the only thing he can focus on is how fucking good that hand feels.

Mr. Stark shifts and Peter whispers, “Oh, God, no, please,” as Mr. Stark drops at the waist and his mouth hovers above Peter’s cock. “Please, Mr. Stark,” he moans, because he can feel that hot breath, can feel it along the head and shaft of his cock with each exhalation, warm and wet.

“Mm, smell so good. Stay where I put you, toy,” murmurs Mr. Stark.

“God, yes, yes, sir,” prays Peter, fisting his hands tightly in the sheets under him, digging his heels in and praying that’s all the support he’ll need to not move, not move once, while Mr. Stark uses his mouth to mess with him. “God, yes, fuck, please.”

“Good boy,” says Mr. Stark, and then he dips his head and Peter is a goner, because it’s so hot and wet and he definitely knows how to use his tongue to enhance the effect.

“Fuck, sir,” gasps Peter. “I can’t, I can’t, _fuck_.”

Mr. Stark chuckles, and Peter’s eyes roll back into his head as those vibrations slide across the skin of his cock. Mr. Stark slides up far enough to mutter, “Tastes so good, flavored stuff has come a long way since the 80s. Let me have what I want, toy, let me play around, enjoy the flavor profile.”

Peter whimpers. Mr. Stark chuckles again as his mouth slides down and he makes a small noise of pleasure that hits Peter’s brain and crashes down his spine with glee. Peter whimpers because he really, this is unfair, he really, he needs things, things like rapid release and orgasm, but Mr. Stark said to let him play around and Peter has no frame of reference for how long that’s going to last.

He’s struggling to breathe already, but it only gets worse as Mr. Stark nips and licks and sucks and drags up and down, playful and perfect. Peter’s breathing is wet and raspy and not really, not really enough _oxygen_ , really. “S-sir,” he hisses, “please, please, s-sir, please.”

Mr. Stark lifts off of his dick and smiles, tongue flashing out to lick at his slit. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Want to taste that, too. Come when you can, toy,” and then he slides down again, smooth and assured, slower than Peter needs. Peter pants, grunting, and concentrates several heartbeats on _staying where he was put_ . When he’s got himself back under control, Mr. Stark makes a dark growling noise and that’s the only warning before there’s a brutal rhythm set, of tongue and lips and suction and sheer wet hot wrapped around Peter’s dick. Peter’s world rapidly shatters down to _not moving_ , _not thrusting_ , _dear God not thrusting_ , and he can feel the blinding light of his orgasm the moment before it hits and he gasps, “Mr. Stark, Mr.- sir, I- I-” because he knows it’s a courtesy, at least, to _try_.

Mr. Stark chuckles, and that’s the last straw, Peter loses his fight with control. He can keep himself from a lot of things, but from tensing every muscle in this moment? He can’t. He doesn’t _move_ , he _stays put_ , but he’s so tightly wound as his orgasm unfurls that he thinks you could probably bounce army tanks off his abs.

Mr. Stark chuckles again, and swallows obscenely loudly, clearly exaggerating it, sucking and swallowing and making Peter moan at the sensations he creates. When Peter’s clearly done, has no more to give, he chuckles again, and slides his lips off with a pop of sound. “Good boy,” he tells Peter, rubbing his hands along Peter’s thighs, up and across his stomach. “So good for me, didn’t move even an inch. So good.”

Peter nods weakly.

“Think that’s about all I got in me, you good, Trouble?” asks Mr. Stark. “Feeling tired, all that fresh air and exercise.”

Peter nods again, and Mr. Stark chuckles. “Good to know I can still suck a man’s brain out of his cock,” he muses. “Still feeling cocky about how awesome you are? Or did I take you down a peg?”

Peter moans, “So many pegs. How did you- you’re so, that was so- so good.”

“Yeah,” agrees Mr. Stark. “I told you, I’m pretty good at it. Little rusty. Still got decades of experience on you, though.”

Peter nods weakly. Mr. Stark flicks the pendant on his chest and stands, announcing, “Okay, I’m going to go, get washcloths to wipe you up, change out of these clothes. You lay there and stay good, okay?”

Peter nods again and Mr. Stark chuckles. “Okay, Trouble, gimme five.” Mr. Stark prowls around the room, to the bathroom, bringing back a washcloth to swipe at Peter, tossing it in the laundry chute to go dig in drawers. When he comes back for the last time, he’s wearing a pair of lurid and bright Spiderman leggings which make Peter laugh. “Mr. Stark, those, you can’t wear those.”

“The hell I can’t,” teases Mr. Stark. “Gotta support my favorite superhero. You okay naked, or you need--?”

“You gonna wrap around me?” asks Peter. 

Mr. Stark’s grin broadens as he declares, “Like an _octopus_.”

“Then I’ll be warm,” Peter says happily. “But get over here soon, I need you, it’s cold.”

“Oh, did my warming wear off already?” asks Mr. Stark, genuine regret in his voice. “You’d think at least your flaming backside could last longer than a half hour.”

Peter shifts against the sheets and says, “No, it’s still there. Just, it’s more of a campfire now. Not enough. Need my squid.”

Mr. Stark laughs and climbs in next to him, throwing the covers over them both and wrapping Peter tight, one hand slipping down Peter’s stomach to rest possessively on his crotch. “I can feel the burn glowing off your ass,” he teases, kissing Peter’s neck to make him shiver. “There’s no way you’re not warmed all the way down to your toes.”

“Mm,” agrees Peter, sinking back into him. “Sounds good, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark laughs, nuzzles his neck, and the last thing Peter remembers is another kiss placed where the necklace pools in the crease of skin between his neck and his shoulder. It feels good, Peter feels good, as he sighs contentedly to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter is sound asleep, Mr. Stark wrapped around him as promised, when FRIDAY chimes gently and then asks in a quiet hiss, “Peter! Sam, Steve and Bucky want to know if you’d like to join them for their run before breakfast?”

Mr. Stark groans, “Oh My God. You are being busted back to high school shop class. Nothing but cheap lab accessories and all the good wrenches will be permanently missing.”

“Hardly a threat, you need me to calculate Hammer’s percentage of total failure in the upcoming contract renewal,” chides FRIDAY.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Mr. Stark grunts, scrubbing his cheek against the pillow, eyes screwed shut against the gentle lights FRIDAY turns on for Peter. “You have the worst friends,” he informs Peter. “Make new ones.”

Peter laughs and wiggles out of his grip, “Get right on that, Mr. Stark. You want them superpowered or just, like-?” He’s already pulling on boxers, racing to gather up a SHIELD-logo pair of pants and a Hawkeye shirt, the one with the quiver design that’ll settle across his shoulders, from the drawer FRIDAY has opened and illuminated.

“Shut up, go away,” moans Mr. Stark, waving at him, and then lifts his head up as Peter slides into his outfit and says, “Wait, one morning breath kiss.”

Peter bends over the bed to give him one obediently. When Mr. Stark breaks it, he webs a pair of socks from the drawer FRIDAY opens and his running shoes from the pile by the couch, and he tries to be silent as he exits the room. FRIDAY definitely helps.

The other three are in similar gear, and they smile at each other silently because it’s Team Breakfast and they’re going to go do laps to work up an appetite. Words are not necessary, between such excellent pacebros.

Steve leads them by the directest route to Central Park, where Bucky’s slightly hunched shoulders loosen a little and he pours on speed, challenging Steve with a cocky grin. Peter hangs back with Sam, who shakes his head as the other two amp up their games. They’re not the only joggers in the Park, but it’s early enough that there’s still homeless on benches and under bushes, and Peter watches Sam care about each and every body they pass, even if he doesn’t stop to intervene.

It feels good, familiar, to pace Sam, to feel the New York air move in and out of his lungs in the crisp October air, to wake up while his muscles activate. They do one lap and then stop to stretch, which maybe only Sam actually _needs,_ but it won’t hurt the three super serumed heroes, anyway. “You two test tube babies done showin’ off,” teases Sam, as they finish up. Peter had been noting with interest that Steve and Bucky have apparently switched to partner-only stretching techniques and he tries to hide his smile from Sam, too, bending his face over his shoes. 

Bucky rolls his eyes, bending to tie his shoe and says, “Look, buddy, you’ll never be a match for me,” which makes Peter reel a little because he’s never known Bucky to be _cruel_ , but then he looks closer and sees something in the smile the two share and files it away to share with Pepper.

“Oh, I can match you,” says Sam easily, shaking out the last stretch, bouncing on his toes, “I just won’t do it with my feet. Care to make bacon for the crew for breakfast? My mama raised a boy who knows how to do it _right_.”

Peter swallows a laugh, because that’s painfully obvious flirting. It’s, it’s _painfully_ _obvious_.

“Gotta hit that five mile mark first,” taunts Bucky. “‘Course, _we_ already hit it, but it’s always nice to have a norm around so I can measure how great I’ve gotten. You figure you still got, what, thirty minutes left on it?”

“That’s it,” declares Sam, and he takes off like a shot.

“On your right,” shouts Bucky, laughing, and slaps Sam on the ass as he runs past.

“Well, that’s new,” comments Steve, in a stunned tone.

Peter slants him a glance, checking to make sure it’s not stunned and _hurt_ . From what he can see in that glance, it’s actually more stunned and _turned on_ , which makes him smirk as he checks his laces.

Steve shakes himself slightly and then says, “Hey, had a thing I wanted to talk to you about,” seriously, gesturing for Peter to join him, starting to jog again when Peter nods and stands.

“Sure, Cap,” says Peter guardedly. A lot has happened since their last chat, Wakanda for one, there was a _lot_ in Wakanda, and he figures Steve is probably going to do the paternal check-in on Peter’s mental health, post-manna-drugging. God, he hopes Cap isn’t going to try to do an “are you okay with me being gay” check-in. Talk about _awkward_.

Their feet slap the pavement in an easy rhythm, not even trying to catch up to Sam, much less Bucky. It’s a good pace for a long chat and Peter briefly wishes he had some sort of ability to say, “No,” to Captain America, because he had been enjoying this before-Breakfast jog with his buddies.

“So, I saw you. With Tony. In the rain.” Peter gasps and stumbles for a moment, before reconfiguring his stride to account for _complete mental anguish_. Captain America _saw_ that? Not that they’re hiding anything, but _still_. 

“And later,” concedes Steve, his tone not at all apologetic, “with the… dancing.”

“I didn’t dance with Tony,” protests Peter. _He didn’t._ His mouth goes dry remembering how much he’d ached to, though.

“No,” agrees Steve. “But you did some watching. And so did he.”

Peter is breathing a lot heavier than the running accounts for, but he’s definitely not wasting mental energy sorting that out. “Yeah, okay,” he says, trying hard not to feel like he’s somehow corrupted Captain America with his lustful looks at Tony, but not doing a great job of it. He knows he looks guilty, he _feels_ guilty, but he also hasn’t done anything worth feeling guilty about. He lifts his chin a little, stubbornly. He hasn’t done anything _wrong,_ and anyway, it’s not like Steve is going to be able to give him a lecture about sleeping with coworkers, _he is totally dating Bucky Barnes now_.

“I’m not here to tell you what to do, son,” says Captain America doggedly. “But, well, the Stark men, I don’t think they know how to not flirt, to not mess with the people around them. I think it’s something in their make-up.”

Peter is silent, because _that’s a pretty damning thing to say about a buddy, Mr. Rogers_. Like Tony doesn’t make the decisions, but his _dick_ does, like Tony doesn’t have basic adult self-control. But then he thinks about what Steve just said, runs it through his head again, and says, disbelieving, “ _Howard_ flirted with _you_?” He’s not asking if Howard _messed with_ Steve, he’s not, he’s _not_. There hasn’t even been a hint of Howard _flirting_ in any of the biographies, the autobiographies, _nothing hinted at that._ Peter’s not ready to know Howard Stark might have _messed_ with Captain America.

“He did, some,” admits Steve, a faint blush on his cheeks. “But I saw him with all the girls, saw him with Peggy and the gang, I knew his dance card was so full I’d just be another name. And it was different then, I wasn’t about to risk _prison_ for just a dance on his card.” He falls silent then, feet slapping the pavement in the easy loping rhythm he’s set for them both. “Never wanted to just be a name on anyone’s dance card,” he admits, and then adds, “And I know it’s different now, but you should want more than that, too.”

 _Oh my God, this is the Respect Yourself talk,_ thinks Peter in a daze. _Captain America_ is giving him the Respect Yourself talk. “Oh, uh, that’s not,” he stutters. “Mr.- Mr. Stark and I are-” _well, hell_ , is now, jogging through Central Park, really a great time and place to get into the _details_? To explain how they haven’t put a label on anything, but he’s the only one wearing a several-thousand-dollar arc reactor mini replica in red around his neck, in the whole of the world, and Mr. Stark is taking just him and Pepper Potts to an island next week. He’s pretty sure the only names on Mr. Stark’s dance card are his and Pepper’s and he’s starting to trust his is written in ink. Hey, that’s a good- “I’m on his dance card, but I’m in _ink_ ,” he tells Steve.

Steve grunts noncommittally. He doesn’t say anything insulting, like _for now_ or _you should dance with people your own age_ or even _isn’t he your boss?_ as they continue jogging.

“This millenia is hard,” Steve muses. “You can do pretty much anything you want, far as I can tell. There’s nothing stopping you from doing things that aren’t good for you, from making the wrong decisions.”

Peter thinks of Mr. Stark, saying, _If I have to take you down, I will,_ thinks of Pepper telling Mr. Stark _behave_. “The people who love you,” he says, with a confidence he only half-feels, “They’ll try to stop you, if what you’re doing isn’t good for you. If you pick the right ones. If you’re honest with them,” he feels compelled to add.

Steve nods at this and says, “Well, I’m not stopping you, I’m just telling you to be sure of what you’re getting, is all. Make sure your eyes are wide open. I’m... I’m maybe not the expert, but I can see how things can’t ever be even between you two.”

“That’s,” and, okay, they’re going to go ahead and have that talk, jogging through Central Park, thinks Peter with exasperation, “that’s kind of what we like about it.” He winces, because that’s awful, that’s the _worst_ way to explain it.

Steve hisses a breath and says, “I won’t try to understand that, but I never understood it about Howard and his girls, either.”

“Well, if you want, I can try to explain it sometime,” offers Peter a little awkwardly, “But not, like, jogging through Central Park, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve winces, laughing, “Sorry, Peter, you don’t have to Mr. Rogers me, I’ll stop.”

Peter shrugs. They jog for awhile and then Peter realizes, talks can go both ways. “So, you and Bucky, huh?” he asks as innocently as he can.

Steve lights up red. “Yeah. He’s, it’s- yeah.”

“You on his dance card in ink?” asks Peter, teasing.

“Pretty sure I’m part of the paper,” admits Steve, with a slow, sweet smile. He’s adorable, he’s as adorable as Peter’s been convinced he would be these last few months. Peter can’t wait for MJ to see it, he hasn’t even hinted it in her direction because he knows she’ll be seeing it today, in a few hours, but he can’t wait. She’s going to lose her mind.

“Going to throw a press conference?” teases Peter some more, because he almost had to explain BDSM to the man while jogging through Central Park, he can take a little of his own back, thanks. “Make it Facebook official?”

Steve squares his jaw. “I might. I don’t like sneaking around. And I don’t like that anyone thinks they have a right to tell me what to do, so long as I’m not hurting anybody.”

“Oh my God,” gasps Peter, thinking of the sudden possibilities. “The LGBTQIA+ community is going to love having you. They’re, you’re going to be better for them than _Elton_ _John_. Better for them than _Ellen.”_

Steve eyes him up. “Is that good?”

“Yeah, it’s good. It’s great! Steve, you don’t like bullies. You’re like the poster child for gay rights.” 

Steve thinks about it as they round a turn. “Okay.”

Peter nods, thinking of the press conference _possibilities_. “You have to talk to FRIDAY. She, she’ll go crazy planning it out perfectly. She’s _dying_ for a coming out party. You do it without her, she’ll make your life miserable.” It would be like a _gay_ _wedding_ for FRIDAY, Peter realizes.

“I have to talk to Bucky,” Steve says seriously.

Peter thinks about that and then offers, “No time like the present,” and pours on speed. Sam should totally be on the ground floor of this, too. He can’t wait to watch the man’s eyes light up. Sam loves a good social justice fight.

~~~

“Peter, if you don’t sit down, I’m going to be forced to engage some kind of exterior discipline, or shackles,” Mr. Stark growls, but they’re in a room full of people who don’t know about them and he’s playing it for laughs, so Peter just sighs and flops onto the nearest stool. “I’m just excited,” he informs the man, as he has the last five times someone has asked if he’s okay. 

“Quinjet’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” FRIDAY informs him. It’s probably meant to be a soothing share of information, but six people sigh and tell her, “Not helping,” as one.

“Here, whisk this,” orders Natasha, handing a bowl to Peter. He automatically begins whisking, careful not to get any over the edge. “So what are your plans for today?” she asks calmly.

“Team Breakfast, obviously,” Peter responds promptly. “And then just hanging out until tonight, MJ and Ned have to go home to catch up with their folks, too. I’ll patrol, right, Cap?” Steve nods from the couch and waves a hand, eyes on Bucky’s face as the man describes something to him. “Then tomorrow we’re doing lunch, before they leave to head back to school.”

“Hanging out isn’t planned down to the minute?” teases Natasha and Peter blinks because no, it’s totally _not_ , that’s the whole point.

“You,” Clint informs her, “were not raised right. It saddens me that you even have to _ask_. Hanging out is sacred unplanned time, because who the fuck knows what hairbrained idea someone is going to come up with? You have to be ready for anything, you can’t plan an agenda around hairbrained scheming.”

“Mostly just legos, video games, or movies,” Peter tells her seriously. “Although I am going to show them around Candyland. I promised.”

“Ew, girl cooties in my boys’ clubhouse,” protests Mr. Stark, to general sighs and snorts.

Peter smiles into the bowl, whisking and thinking of how lucky he is, how in less than fifteen minutes almost all of his favorite people will be in one place, eating… whatever it is that Natasha and Sam and Bruce are making. Omelettes? Crepes? Natasha waves for the bowl back and Peter hands it over. Fifteen minutes and he’ll get to see MJ freak the fuck out over Cap and Bucky holding hands. He can’t wait.

“Okay, stop, stop all of that,” growls Tony, putting his hands on Peter’s, pressing them down into the tabletop. Peter startles and then winces. “Sorry, was I tapping again?”

“Little bit,” hisses Tony, his eyes exasperated. “Here, pluck these grapes.” He hands Peter a package of grapes and a bowl from the cabinet. “Keep yourself busy,” he orders. Peter nods, because that’s, that’s a good plan, whisking _had helped._ He can do helping.

“You can shred the cheese next,” Bruce says easily. Peter says, “You got it, Banner,” exactly like he does in the lab.

“Did someone give you espresso instead of coffee?” complains Clint, walking by. “And more importantly, do you get this excited when I come to visit?”

“He does,” Natasha tells him. “I usually take him down to the gym and we dance or train, but Bruce asked me to help with breakfast, so here we are.”

“If you’d said something,” mutters Bruce, “I would have asked _anyone else_.” They share a wry smile.

“Or I would have taken him down to train,” calls T’Challa. “Or dance.”

Mr. Stark’s head slowly rises from his coffee at that, for a long cool stare that has T’Challa shrugging his shoulders and smiling affably. Peter leans backwards just a twitch, into Mr. Stark’s space, and feels Mr. Stark’s hand rub possessively, just out of sight, on the small of his back. Now is _not_ the time to begin discussions for next year’s rains, Peter thinks at T’Challa fiercely, praying it’s passed on telepathically. He plucks grapes at a rapid speed, trying to finish so he can distract Mr. Stark by asking where the cheese is, for him to shred. MJ and Ned would also make a good distraction but they will _never get here._

~~~

Ned stumbles off the Quinjet and grabs Peter by the shoulders, shouting, “OH MY GOD THIS IS A QUINJET.” He repeats it, or variations on it, as MJ departs the jet, face scowling at what Peter hopes is only Ned, but suspects might be the _both_ of them. The shouting would make more sense if the jet’s engines were still engaged. They’re not, it’s pretty silent on the landing pad, other than Ned’s hysteria.

Peter looks innocently at MJ, as she turns to shout at him, louder than Ned, “He’s been like this the whole flight, seriously Ned, I will post those photos of you in fifth grade, I will, just shut up!”

Ned gulps and collapses into Peter’s arms. Peter has been half expecting it, anyway, so he catches Ned and lowers him gently to the ground.

“Such a loser,” sniffs MJ, punching Peter in the shoulder. “Gimme hug.”

Peter stands, and they hug over Ned’s prone body. MJ slings an arm over Peter’s shoulder and says, “Get me inside. Him, we can lock out here until he grasps the concept of too much fanboy.”

“No such thing!” shouts Ned, rising up to follow them.

Peter laughs because he _missed them_ so much. He pushes open the door to the common room of the Penthouse.

“Oh. My. God. It’s the _Avengers_ ,” squeaks Ned, which is ridiculous, it’s only been a few months since he was at Peter’s birthday. Peter loves him for it a little, though, because deep down inside, there’s a little voice in him that squeaks the same thing every morning at breakfast.

MJ scowls at the people sprawled around the common area furniture. “Why am I wearing pants?” she asks Peter. “Why am I- _no one else here_ is dressed. _Everyone is in pajamas, Peter.”_ Peter winces and says, “You can borrow some of mine?”

She sniffs. “Do you have anything in Cap?”

Peter nods. “Absolutely, I have a selection of Cap pajamas.” That’s completely normal, he reassures himself, leading the way to the stairs to his suite.

“I’m her favorite,” Steve explains to Bucky. “I’m her favorite,” he tells Clint, who rolls his eyes. MJ gives him a short approving nod before sweeping after Peter.

“I will take anything,” Ned declares, following them. “Anything will be awesome, Peter. Let’s do breakfast. Hey, did Bucky make the bacon or--?”

All around the Penthouse there are groans. 

“I got the bacon,” shouts Sam. “I got it.”

“Ruined it,” says both Bucky and Steve, in the same breath. They lean together for a moment, and MJ looks at Peter with her eyebrows up before pushing him to keep moving up the stairs.

“It’s a thing, I’ll explain it,” hisses Peter, as they hit the landing. He glances back at the assembled crowd below, locating Mr. Stark just for comfort. The man is sitting next to Natasha at the breakfast bar, critiquing her crepe-pouring skills. He’ll probably survive, Peter guesses, and enters his room, the door closing behind him.

“Okay, spill,” says MJ, collapsing on the couch, her bright eyes laughing. “Because are they fucking? They have to be, did you see the way they sat there together? Tell me they’re fucking.”

“They’re totally fucking,” Peter gushes, going over to the wall and opening the drawers where he thinks he has the scrub pants that are now serving him as pajama bottoms. He really should figure out where his pajama bottoms have gone before winter hits, he thinks. “They’re totally fucking and it’s killing me, they’re adorable, and no one here understands why it’s adorable, they’re all like, co-workers and adults and it’s killing me, did you see them?”

“That is way too much hot in one relationship,” she says warningly. “That is… that is supernova levels of hot.”

“He’s going to do a coming-out press conference,” Peter tells her. Her jaw drops. “With glitter. And spangles.”

“He is not,” she argues, laughing.

“He is, though,” Peter laughs, throwing her a pair of pants and a t-shirt, digging around for something that might fit Ned. “He, he worked it out with Sam and Bucky on the run this morning, he’s totally going to do a press conference, FRIDAY is going to help throw it.”

“He can’t be gay,” MJ tells Peter, horrified. “He can’t be gay because I really need to fuck him he’s so fucking cute with his fucking boyfriend, argh!”

“Agreed,” says Peter easily.

“Who are we talking about?” asks Ned.

“Oh my God, Ned,” they both shout, turning to stare at him in horror. Peter throw him a pair of XL Thor sweats and a Hulk-Out t-shirt. 

“What? Who?” says Ned, as MJ slips into the bathroom to change.

“Captain America and Bucky,” Peter tells him, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, wow,” says Ned, pulling off his sweatshirt and Hulk t-shirt to throw on the new one. Peter shakes his head but doesn’t bother to point out how ridiculous that is. It’s nice that college hasn’t changed Ned too much. “Yeah, that’s, that’s a whole power couple thing,” Ned agrees.

“Peter?” asks MJ from the bathroom, and there’s uncertainty in her voice, which does not bode well, and also laughter, which definitely does not bode well. He trots over to join her, but she exits the bathroom wearing the pajamas which totally swamp her, fidgeting with Tony’s Mark L arc reactor in her hands. “You, uh, you want to tell us anything?” she asks.

“Oh my God,” breathes Ned. “Is that Tony Stark’s arc reactor? What’s it doing in your--” he gasps. “Is _everyone_ fucking _everyone_ _else_ in this Tower, Peter?”

“You wish,” scoffs MJ. She looks up at Peter and says, “Oh my God. Are you fucking Captain America, too? Because if there are _gay orgies_ and you _let me go away to college_ , I will actually be mad at you.”

“No,” says Peter firmly, to both of them. “That’s, that’s not what-”

“Do _not_ deny that that is Tony Stark’s arc reactor, in your bathroom, next to the flavored lube, Peter Parker,” accuses MJ. Peter can feel the blush start at his _toes_. 

“It is,” he admits. “But there’s no _orgies_. I’m not- Bucky and Steve just got together, I’m not fucking either one of them.” He’s immediately guilty, thinking of Wakanda, because he probably _would have,_ and he knows it shows on his face when MJ’s jaw drops and she says, “Oh my God, you are the worst liar in history! Are Ned and the slash writers _actually right_ about this right now? Are there _orgies?!_ I will _kill you_ , Peter Parker, I have just had the most boring month of my life, we reviewed the syllabi for hours in every class, I will _end you_.”

“No, God,” protests Peter, hands up in innocence. “They just danced and it was hot, I swear, I didn’t, I mean, I danced with Bucky some but there was no touching, I swear, MJ.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but must see nothing but honesty, because she sniffs.

“But are you fucking Iron Man, Peter?” asks Ned, his voice horrified.

Peter winces. “Yeah. Kinda?” He risks a glance and gets to watch as Ned’s face bursts into delighted glee.

“No,” shouts MJ, also delighted. “Peter, you have had the worst crush on him since like elementary school, no, you are not living out that dream.”

“He, he snuck in last night, that’s why the arc reactor, on the shelf, probably had a shower this morning,” explains Peter. He’s bragging, he realizes. But if you can’t brag to your besties about fucking Tony Stark, what can you brag about?

“Holy. Shit,” says Ned. “You’re fucking Iron Man. Tony _Stark_.”

Peter nods, and then rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not like that, but yeah.”

“So what is it like?” asks MJ, suddenly serious, slapping the arc reactor in her hand. “Because if he is not respecting you, and how amazing you are, and if you are not being treated like the fucking genius superhero lovebunny you are, so help me God, I will _eat his heart_ in the _marketplace_.”

“She’ll do it, too,” offers Ned. “Remember that time Sally got her feelings hurt by Flash and MJ almost cut it out with a spoon in the lunchroom?” They both shiver when MJ smiles at the memory.

“He respects me just fine,” Peter tells her. “He, he’s good to me, he spoils me, even, but it’s so much more than, I mean, he listens to me, and when I get stuck with the math, he helps me figure it out, and-”

“Oh my God, you love him,” declares Ned, smiling broadly.

Peter hunches. 

“Oh my God, you do,” accuses MJ. “You love him. Fuck, Peter, he’s, I mean, he is almost ready to retire, isn’t he?”

“He is not that old,” protests Ned, before Peter can even react. “But he is definitely dating Pepper Potts or are you-” he gasps “-a _homewrecker_ , Peter?”

“I am not a homewrecker and he is not that old,” Peter says as calmly as he can. “Pepper negotiated for us.” It sounds weird, he realizes, and then he realizes he just made a tactical mistake, watching Ned’s mouth drop open and MJ’s eyebrows twist in recognition. It’s not like they haven't been sharing fan-fiction recs with each other for years at this point. They know exactly the type of stuff he likes reading, if only to go around it.

“Negotiated?” repeats MJ. Her eyes sharpen. “Oh my God. I know what that means. I know what that _means_ , Peter Parker. You are not just fucking him, you’re not just in love with him, you’re doing _kinky_ _shit_ with him.”

“No,” gasps Ned, whirling to look, wide-eyed, at Peter. “Are you? Like _what_?”

“Peter, is this emotionally safe?” demands MJ. “Is this a good decision, emotionally?”

Peter takes a deep breath. “First of all, I’m not telling you anything,” he says to Ned. “You’re the worst. You shouldn’t ask that stuff. And secondly,” he turns to MJ. “He, being with him, it is a good decision. I feel very good, emotionally. It’s crazy and weird and no one is ever going to understand it, but we _fit_ together. He calls me his perfect Peter Parker,” he says softly, smiling a little. The pendant on his necklace rests heavily on its little patch of skin, comforting and comfortable.

MJ glides over to him, dropping the arc-reactor on a nearby table. She wraps her arms around him and says, “Well, okay. You’re a grown spider. I’m here for you, if you ever need his heart eaten in the marketplace, you call me. But I trust you.” Ned ambles over and wraps his arms around both of them. They stand still for a moment and then Ned says, “So the sex is good, though, right? The kinky sex? Because I gotta say, I watched his sex tape and I bet it’s good.”

“Jesus, Ned,” says MJ at the same time that Peter groans and wiggles out of their arms. “He has flavored lube on his bathroom sink where anyone could find it. Probably safe to say the sex is going well.”

“Oh,” says Ned, and then, in an enlightened tone, “Oh!”

“It’s not like that, not yet,” protests Peter.

“Not yet means it will be,” says Ned. “And for your sake, I hope it’s soon, he’s like 60, Peter. He could have a heart attack any day. Fuck him now, while you can.”

Peter’s jaw drops open.

“That is- that is so wildly inappropriate I am going to spend the whole ride back to your campus explaining it to you in words of one syllable,” MJ says severely, her voice cold and clipped. Ned flinches. MJ continues, “They have a high-risk lifestyle. If this is something Peter wants, and something Tony Stark wants,” she sounds a little doubtful, and Peter thinks _hey_ \- “then we are not judging, capiche?” 

“I wasn’t judging!” protests Ned. “I was just-”

“Capiche?” repeats MJ, deadpan.

“I wasn’t judging, Peter, honest,” says Ned, hands spread. “I just wanted to say, I don’t think you need to waste time worrying about the details. Life only sneaks you a Tony Stark like, okay, for me, _never_ , it’s _never_ going to sneak a Tony Stark into my bedroom. So you should seize the Tony.”

Peter eyes him, and glances at MJ. “Okay,” he says slowly, still feeling a little suspicious about the heart attack comment, not sure he wants to let Ned smooth this over so easily. “I will?”

“Good,” says MJ decisively. “Well, I think we’ve got everything covered, then. Steve and Bucky, totally doing it. Peter and Tony Stark? Also fucking around. Eating hearts in the marketplace if anyone hurts you, or if Bucky is mean to my boy, check, and now we can go eat crepes.”

“Okay, but real quick, is there anyone else we need to know about, Peter?” asks Ned nervously. “Because I completely missed whatever the two of you saw and I don’t want to be the only guy in there that doesn’t know something that everyone else can see.”

“Uh, Natasha and Bruce,” says Peter.

“The Black Widow and the Hulk?” squeals Ned. “Are you _kidding_ me?”

“Nope,” laughs Peter, putting extra pop on the ‘p’ sound.

“Hot. Damn.” says Ned in awe. “This makes my story about banging that girl in her dorm seem very tame,” he muses.

“What?!” shout MJ and Peter.

“Oh,” laughs Ned nervously. “Uh.”

“You are telling me everything right now,” growls MJ. “You are telling me everything right now and I swear to God if there is any _hint_ of non-consensuality, college boy, I will call my pack of feminazis and we will tear you limb from limb.”

“You have a pack of feminazis?” asks Peter. He doesn’t know why he asks it. Of course MJ does.

“An entire squadron,” she says threateningly. “I am the squad leader and I will end you, Ned, so get talking.”

Ned swallows nervously and nods. Peter settles on the couch because breakfast can _wait_.

~~~

The door opens on their laughter as Ned gasps, “And then, like, what was I supposed to do? So I said, ‘Thanks,’ and she-”

“You said ‘thanks?’ _Why_?” shrieks MJ.

“I didn’t know what else to say,” laughs Ned. “You weren’t there to _ask.”_

“Well, not _thanks_ ,” laughs Peter, clutching his stomach.

“This looks like fun, Mr. Parker, but the rest of the class wants to know if you’re coming down to eat anytime soon. There’s really good bacon,” says Mr. Stark loudly from the doorway. 

“Ruined!” shout two voices from the common area.

Peter glances over at him, eyes still dancing. “Y-yes, Mr. Stark,” he says, “Of course, sorry, we just- Ned had to tell us a story. In private.”

“Is he done, or did I interrupt?” asks Mr. Stark.

“Oh, I’m done,” says Ned decisively. MJ snickers. “Crepes!”

They head for the stairs, Ned and MJ racing ahead. Mr. Stark flicks Peter’s necklace at his neckline as Peter passes by him. Peter smiles up at him, a quick flash of heat, and watches his eyes darken briefly. “Your arc reactor’s in there on the _table_ ,” Peter tells him under his breath. “MJ found it in the _bathroom_.”

“Ah,” breathes Mr. Stark. Peter holds his breath for a second. “Well, that was careless of me. By the lube?” he winces.

“Yeah,” agrees Peter. 

“Well, at least we know they’re loyal enough to you to keep a secret from the press, _Spiderman_ ,” sighs Tony. Peter feels his shoulders relax. “I told you, Trouble,” mutters Tony. “I don’t actually care, we can do a press conference tomorrow with _visual_ _aids_ , as long as I don’t hurt _you_.”

“Dude, Peter, this _bacon_ , get down here,” shouts Ned from the kitchen.

“Ruined,” shout Bucky and Steve, but when Peter glances over, they’re both munching on strips, leaning companionably into one another on the couch.

MJ walks by the couch and places an apple on Steve’s plate. Steve looks up at Peter and Peter shrugs. MJ tells him, “I worry about you. Just eat it.” Steve gives the apple a considering look, a small smile on his lips, and takes a bite.

~~~

The rest of the day is just as amazing, for Peter. Clint takes all three of them to the archery range and gives the two beginners a tutorial in the bow while he and Peter work through some scenarios they’d discussed in emails the last few weeks. Peter gives them a quick tour of the workshop, just to introduce them to the bots and show them his latest suit design. They’re suitably impressed. Mr. Stark comes along, and may hint at a summer internship for both of them, provided their grades reflect the capacity to science in a safe manner, which makes Peter snort.

Natasha declares an afternoon dance party and they push aside the furniture and almost everyone cuts a rug at some point. Natasha is eclectic in her music selection, mostly sticking to the peppy swing music but throwing in some hip hop and even a country two-step. Peter loves watching Bucky and Natasha for their technical skill, it’s like watching professionals, but his heart skips a beat when Steve holds out his hand to MJ and she squeals. They’ve both got two left feet- although not three, like Ned- but they laugh and she melts enough to enjoy her next dance, with Mr. Stark. There’s only the two girls, so it’s no surprise to Peter when Clint grabs him early on and says, “You be the girl, Natasha hasn’t taught me how to follow yet.” Dancing with Clint is like dancing with Natasha, it’s fun and fast and Peter has to be ready for anything, because the guy knows a lot and seriously seems invested in making Peter stumble. When Clint’s done, T’Challa holds out an imperious hand and says, “I have watched enough to be sure of the steps, come dance with me.”

Mr. Stark is busy with MJ, so Peter doesn’t look in his direction for permission, and shrugs his shoulders instead. “Sure, Your Majesty,” he says, because it’s just a swing step. No wrist flicks required.

T’Challa is courteous and fun, and for a first-timer, has amazing rhythm and even tries a few fancy steps, which impresses the hell out of Peter. By the end, they’re laughing, but it’s no surprise to Peter when Mr. Stark says, “Swap out,” and passes MJ off to T’Challa and takes Peter for the next song. There’s no privacy, not enough to check in with each other, but Peter raises an eyebrow at Mr. Stark, who blows out a breath and rolls his eyes. Peter shrugs, acknowledging Mr. Stark’s _right_ to be jealous, and tightens his grip just a moment, hopefully sending the message, _still yours._ From the way Mr. Stark smirks back, _message received_.

The delivery from Sticky Fingers is a bit of a surprise, and breaks up the dance party. The note reads,

_Dear PPP, thanks for the croissants, sweetheart, gave me big points during the negotiations to have them. Be home soon, keep my seat warm -Pepper_

It’s not in her handwriting, which makes sense, she’s in France. Or Italy. Peter still doesn’t know.

“What’s all this?” asks Mr. Stark, eyeing the twelve boxes in surprise.

“Oh, Pepper had subpar croissants, wherever she is, FRIDAY knows, so I sent her a box from Sticky Fingers,” explains Peter. “I guess she figured she needed to send a thank you.”

“Perfect Peter Parker,” murmurs Mr. Stark, and Peter feels his face flush for a moment. Mr. Stark shouts, “Grub time,” to the dancers, “anybody work up an appetite?”

“Yesss,” shouts Clint. “Sticky Fingers!!”

“What’s a Sticky Finger?” asks Ned enthusiastically.

“A bakery,” explains Natasha, his current partner. She tugs him with her to the counter. “Here, this is the best one,” she selects a baklava. “Eat it,” she commands. Ned slides the sweet into his mouth and says, “Oh. My. God. I’m moving in.”

“Okay,” says Mr. Stark, his own mouth full of red velvet brownie. “I think I’ve got apartments we’re not using, FRIDAY?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it. You want one for the other one, too?”

Mr. Stark raises a brow at MJ. She glares back at him, mouth full of cherry tort. “I am not taking your charity,” she declares.

“Whatever, you can take Pepper’s then,” Mr. Stark informs her. “You’re her newest intern, practically. Pepper will love teaching you how to eat Board Presidents alive this summer, and you’ll keep this piece of Trouble out of trouble.” He waves a negligent hand at Peter. MJ narrows her eyes, clearly taken with the idea of following Pepper Potts around and stealing all of her best intimidation moves.

“My affection can totally be bought and I love charity, it tastes amazing,” Ned informs the room, shoving a second piece of baklava in his mouth.

“This will be very good for Lego’s bottom line,” agrees Mr. Stark. “FRIDAY, you getting that Lego lab set up?”

“As soon as Pepper finalizes the stock approvals for the seed account,” confirms FRIDAY.

Peter smiles into his croissant. Spoil Peter Summer is apparently going to be happening for two months next year. Well, Mr. Stark had threatened it, two weeks back, when he brought the man coffee and pancakes and a blowjob at midnight. Pepper had been enthusiastic about the idea, mentioning that summer internships were absolutely the best kind of nepotism and a good repayment for the additional SHIELD security presence in MJ and Ned’s lives, post reveal. It’s not like going home to their parents is a great idea, speaking of security nightmares. He chews his second croissant, Pepper’s note folded in his pants pocket, and considers the common room. Everyone is relaxed and happy, faces flushed and hands sticky with some form of honey or sugar or frosting. There’s a lot of finger licking, is all. 

This is better than he’d thought it would be. This is the best. He knew it would be good, he’s been counting on it being good for weeks, now, but this? Crossing the streams was the best idea Mr. Stark ever had. Well, concedes Peter, choosing a macaroon from the selection, maybe not the _best._ He smiles into it as MJ makes a squeak and whispers to him, “Oh my God, they’re kissing, in front of me, I am dying. Am I dead? I need an invitation to that press conference.”

“Done,” Peter tells her, and she squeaks again, biting into her cream puff and making a satisfied noise.

It was a pretty good idea, Peter thinks again. Crossing the streams was a pretty good idea. He’ll have to think of a way to say thanks, and _soon_.

**Author's Note:**

> Come meet me in the comment section with a list of your demands (I seriously have a list of all the plotbunnies people have farmed off to me so because I love new ideas), but keep it cool with the critiquing, guys, I'm new. Compliment sandwiches WORK.


End file.
